Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

12th Day of the 8th Moon, 300 AC

Ser Barristan the Bold

Three days of tense anticipation as envoys went back and forth across the Blackwater Rush, yet they still couldn't decide on a neutral ground as a meeting place. A ship, a floating platform hammered in the river, and a hill halfway between the Northern encampment and Aegon's army were dismissed, leaving them with the bridge as the last reasonable option. 

Barristan Selmy knew the Golden Bridge intimately; he had traversed it hundreds of times; if one wanted to travel to the Reach or the Stormlands from King's Landing or vice versa, they had to pass through it. A great deed of arched stonework with a length of 150 yards and wide enough for four carriages to ride abreast, the bridge had been constructed at the narrowest and calmest section of the Blackwater Rush. It was one of the youngest bridges in the realm, the most lasting symbol of the Concilliator's efforts to bind the realm together by road, even if it was funded by Lannister gold. It was well-kept, unlike the kingsroad and its branches, which had long fallen into disrepair; the once broad pathways of paved stone and crushed gravel had narrowed with time and were covered with a thick layer of mud. 

Aegon seemed to favour the bridge as a suitable meeting place. "A symbolic crossing created by my ancestors. Is there a place more fitting for the parley?"

The bridge was heavily fortified on both sides, with Aegon on the southern bank and Stark and his forces on the northern one.

The previous deadlock across the river had been broken with the arrival of Robb Stark and his six thousand horse, threatening Aegon's left flank and allowing the Tully lord to build a makeshift bridge upstream.

With the cold of winter and the Black Plague, the situation had slowed down Aegon's forces enough to see the Iron Throne's remaining forces coalesce here and put them at a disadvantage.

Worse, despite Aegons' best efforts, the Dornish, the Golden Company's captains, and the Stormlords who had joined them mixed like oil and water. In the rare cases when the campaign was going well, the differences were swept under the rug. Sadly, things were not going as well as they had hoped.

Aegon was irked but not surprised–such was the expectation of an army forced by Stormlanders, Dornishmen, and sellswords. When the war was progressing well, it was easy for men to smile and get along. But as soon as things started going awry, and they encountered difficulties, old feuds resurfaced. Each time someone proposed or advised something, many jumped to gainsay them out of spite.

Now was no different.

Another war council was called in the constructed wooden hall Aegon used as a command tent–and for once, everyone was eager to attend, if due to the burning braziers that chased away the resurging chill. The usually spacious hall felt cramped, with nearly half a hundred men crowded inside around the command table. 

Aegon sat at the head, Ser Barristan to his left and Lord Connington to his right as was proper for the Lord Hand. Lysono Maar had officially become the master of whispers, even if the king was cautious about relying on the Golden Company and the Essosi too much. But he couldn't discard them as his staunchest and most powerful supporters either.

Down the table were three of the commanders and captains of the Golden Company, Prince Quentyn Martell, Lord Yronwood and ten more important lords were seated around the table with a detailed map of the Crownlands while the rest of the men stood. 

"This could be a trap!" Quentyn cautioned. "Let's forget the dubious meeting halfway on the only bridge that crosses the Blackwater Rush. How do you know you can trust House Stark–they've broken parley before, killing Ser Gunthor Hightower and most of his retinue under the guise of negotiation!"

"Right, you would know about trust and dishonourably slaying people under peace banners," Lord Beric Dondarrion tutted.

"That was the Wyl of Wyl and had nothing to do with House Nymenos Martell–"

"And the Princes of Dorne never condemned his actions or punished their vassal for it," Lord Lester Morrigen drawled. "Do you think us fools, Prince Quentyn? As if Wyl would ever risk facing the wrath of the kingdoms without assurances. I never thought I'd see a Martell speak of righteousness so fervently. Oh, the irony, even the Gods must be laughing!"

Most of the Dornish Lords, even those that were House Martell's most leal supporters, looked on dispassionately, observing Quentyn, their future Prince, to see how he would hold himself in front of adversity and biting words, looking for any hint of weakness. 

"Enough!" Aegon slammed the butt of his cup on the table, silencing the quarrelling vassals. "I will not have you squabbling like little children before a battle."

Nearly a year of campaigning and dealing with proud yet quarrelsome vassals, lords, sellswords and fearful peasants, and war had destroyed any trace of youthful naivete from the king, unlike the quick and successful Volantis campaign. His purple eyes were still bright, yet there was a sharpness to them, and the many skirmishes and minor battles had allowed him to accumulate the much-needed experience in command and battle. Only Barristan and Ser Jordayne could still best Aegon in a spar, but each following victory was harder to earn. This talent and dedication reminded the old Lord Commander of Prince Rhaegar; it reminded him of the same fervour for the sword born from necessity and hard work. Within a year, the young Aegon would defeat even the old knight, and not because the onset of old age was slowly but surely robbing Ser Barristan of his vigour and strength.

"Not much of a battle when neither side is willing to cross the river to fight the other," the Bloodroyal noted, face neutral.

"We're at a disadvantage," Jon Connington spoke. "Especially after Holt and Vaith failed to dislodge the Young Wolf before he set camp."

"That's a fancy way of saying they died a worthless death," noted Maelor Maegyr, the commander of the three thousand Tiger Cloaks. "You all bragged so hard about your powerful mounted knights and their heavy armour and sharp lances, yet they folded after the first clash with the enemy–who aren't even knights!"

His heavy accent had grown softer after over half a year in Westeros. With all the squabbling lords and vassals, Aegon had grown to rely increasingly on the man and the former slaves who had no divided loyalties, unlike the rest. It was a rare sight to see one of the Old Blood of Volantis participate in martial matters, but the Maegyrs were an old line of the tiger faction with the tradition to go with it. 

"The heavy northern lancers are knights in all but name," Ser Barristan noted before the prickly Dornish lords could begin another pointless argument. "And those that are here with Robb Stark are veterans of his campaign through the war, bloodied and experienced in a year and a half of victories."

"And those direwolves aren't normal," said Ser Lenos Blackmont, the knight who led the Black Vulture's forces. "Such beasts oughtn't grow bigger than a warhorse! Or drive some of the finest trained steeds mad with their mere presence alone. It is unnatural, I say–this must be some sorcery at play!"

"Aye!" Many of the lords agreed, even the superstitious commanders from the Golden Company, like Black Balaq, clutched the gilded pendant of the Summer Island's goddess of magic and fertility. "There's talk of blood magic and human sacrifice from the North, and I heard the wolf lord has a shadow binder from Asshai in his employ, too!"

Jon Connington scoffed, his fierce blue eyes bearing down on the cowed lords. 

"Fearmongering, smoke, and mirrors," he said, voice dripping with distaste. "The damn overgrown dogs are natural predators that probably scare all steeds unused to their presence. Eddard Stark was always a dangerous commander who leveraged every advantage he could muster and doubtlessly taught the same to his sons."

"What about the blood magic and human sacrifice?"

"Don't tell me you believe these tales of giants and children of the forest, too?" Connington's voice thickened with disdain. "This is merely children's tales. And even if they weren't, they too can be slain, just like those ice fiends the Night Watch pushed back within half a year. Otherwise, Westeros would not have been ruled by the great lineages of men for millennia while the lingering dregs from the Dawn Age dwindle into oblivion."

"Our focus should be on here and now, not on ancient histories long passed," Aegon said. "I think I'll accept the parley."

"Your Grace, it isn't wise." 

"It could be a trap!"

"House Stark isn't trustworthy anymore, even if they're your kinsmen, Your Grace!"

"Sorcerers and foul trickery go hand in hand…"

"Enough, I have decided. A parley will buy us some time, too–we can set it in two days. Quentyn, any word from your father?"

The young Dornish Prince grimaced.

"The second muster is still in training, Your Grace. And it will take moons before they join us, even if they start marching as soon as I send word to my father. Delaying is of no use, especially when the snow makes forage and supplying food from the Stormlands nigh impossible."

"The gods have cursed us with such weather. But surely the enemy will falter too?" Ser Harry Strickland asked.

"Northmen falter in the cold? Hah!" Lord Robert Felwood roared with laughter, slapping the table as tears streamed down his face. "Gods, the men of the North are born with ice in their veins, you fool. The thing you call bone-freezing cold is merely a soft autumn kiss for the likes of them."

"But we aren't fighting Northmen only," Ser Barristain said. "They're not even a third of the twenty-four thousand swords and lances arranged against us. There are Valemen, Rivermen, Westerlanders, and men from Myr who are seeing snow for the first time in their lives."

"And the Iron Throne has the supplies of King's Landing, the Reach, and Pentos flowing into their camp," Jon Connington reminded grimly. "Even the Riverlands with the Rush secured upstream! Lord Stark is no fool, and he knows this; it's not merely a matter of who can withstand the cold more, but rather how the commander handles the weather. None knows how to use winter to their advantage like a Stark. He knows he doesn't need to attack; he can wait and watch until the snow and hunger kill us instead of assaulting a fortified position across the river. We need to take the initiative, Your Grace!"

"We already failed to dislodge the Northern horse on our bank," Aegon said, rubbing his chin. "Even if we move to engage them, they possess the mobility to simply retreat and deny us battle, returning us to the previous position. We are cornered, and retreat will only see our position weaken come spring."

"If to stay is a slow death and to leave is a slower death, we just need to surprise them," the Griffin Lord offered. "Something they wouldn't expect, a show of daring to take any advantage and force them to give battle."

"We can still challenge them to a trial of the Seven," Lord Ernest Errol proposed. The man had joined Aegon with the promise of reclaiming Haystack Hall from his cousin, who had served as castellan and held the Errol Seat after Renly's campaign and the disease had seen the mainline gutted. "The First Men's olden tradition see them not only willing but proud to champion their own battles, so if we can force a Trial, the Starks and Tommen's best warriors can be removed in a single stroke."

"And even if they don't honour the result, our chances of victory would be much increased if Tommen has no commander with enough prestige and skill to command his forces," Jon Connington was the first to agree.

"This Tommen might be a boy, but he is backed by warriors of fierce repute who have proven themselves many times in the war," the Maegyr cautioned. "Ser Tybal Brune of Crackclaw, a man of forty they call the Widowmaker, yet we would be hard-pressed to find a warrior amongst our ranks with more heads to his sword. And he's just one of many propping the golden boy-king."

"I don't like our chances," Quentyn cautioned. "They can present seasoned killers all wielding dragonsteel-"

"And so can we," Ser Trystane Rivers, now commander of the Golden Company's lancers, interrupted. "We can match them man to man, Valyrian Steel blade to Valyrian Steel blade."

"Stark has dragonsteel armour, and his bastard is bedecked in frost that doesn't melt or break…"

"It's too much a risk. What if we lose?!"

"We won't be sending any of our commanders or lords to do the fighting, obviously," Errol pointed out mirthfully. "If Stark and his get want to risk their leaders to do the brunt of the fighting, the foolishness is on their heads. There are many knights and warriors eager for glory and honours and rewards-"

"Do you all fools hear yourselves? They call Eddard Stark a most honourable man, but he has groomed such dangerous monsters under his roof. The Young Wolf, the Crownbreaker-"

"You speak of a Trial of the Seven, yet I've received word from the Wall–when Jon Snow crossed, he bested seven of Shadow Tower's finest rangers alone."

"Pah, a bunch of bollocks. I know the tales coming from the North and their braggards. Some minor skirmish happens, and by the time we hear of it, the victor smashed an army of a thousand with only a score of warriors and slew hundreds of men with a gaze!" 

The fierce arguing continued, yet Ser Barristan Selmy remained silent as all sorts of opposing advice and quarrelling reached Aegon's ears. 

His former squire's face was unreadable as he scrutinised his war council one by one, and to Barristan, they looked no better than a bunch of fishwives haggling and arguing at the market over the smallest produce they fancied. He was quite certain a good chunk of the Stormlords were arguing for the sake of it, trying to poke at the pride of the Dornish, while all the Westerosi treated the exiles from the Golden Company as nothing more than former bandits.

The older lords advised caution, while the younger ones were eager to rush into battle, confident that their martial skills would see their foes break. The sellswords were much like the latter, for a victory would see them rewarded with lands, riches, and lordships–everything they desired.

It was far from perfect, but it was all that Aegon had to work with. Alas, the gods had favoured House Stark in the Northern campaign–which shouldn't have come as such a surprise, yet it had.

"I have heard your thoughts," Aegon's cold voice cut short the squabbling again. "Lysono, any word from Tyrosh?"

"Steward Tyrion Lannister has fifty warships manned and seven thousand swords ready, according to my spy," the Lyseni said. "He has everyone mustered and ready to move out, but he's still waiting."

"Waiting like his father to see who will win before committing," the Blackmont knight scoffed.

"Even if he moved out now, he would come too late to do anything but bow to the victor," Jon Connington said dismissively. "The Imp might be of his father's make, but he comes short where his father excelled."

"I have decided." The king stood up, and the silence in the hall was so thick one could hear a needle drop. "I'll meet Lord Stark tomorrow at dawn on the Golden Bridge with a retinue of my choosing before proceeding with one plan or another. You are dismissed for the day."

The tent quickly emptied, and only Jon Connington, Ser Barristan, and Quentyn remained. 

The young king, however, barely paid attention to his good brother. Dorne could still muster another ten to twelve thousand men, but the Dornish lords and Doran Martell had dragged their feet, giving all manner of excuses. It was a common thing for the Dornish not to commit their full strength to campaigns above the Red Mountains, for when they lost, they had dire need of their manpower to weather future retaliations.

But such things did not suit Aegon; he fought with victory in mind and did not plan for defeat. 

While decent with a lance and a crossbow, Quentyn proved himself a mediocre commander and advisor, aiming towards solidifying his position in Dorne at the expense of assisting Aegon, which in turn made Aegon favour his new paramour when he felt displeased with House Martell.

It was a displeasure he oft felt as of late.

His wife, Arianne, had yet to fall pregnant, but Talisa Maegyr's belly had swollen considerably. Rumours had appeared that the Queen had gone infertile from half a decade of indulging in Moon Tea–which was a thinly veiled way of calling her worse than a loose woman. While many thought the rumours sprung from the Stormlords, Ser Barristan suspected Lord Yronwood was behind it somehow. But no matter how much the Martells denied, half of the Dornishmen personally knew of Arianne Martell's lovers, and from them, word spread throughout the army.

It was a scandal, and the men bored in the tedium and waiting of war latched onto it like a hungry dog with a bone and two days after the rumour started, it was the talk of the encampment. 

Duels had been fought over the rumours, a few people fell conspicuously ill and perished of belly cramps and the bloody flux, and House Martell only looked weaker and weaker with each death. Aegon would have been forced to defend his wife's honour–if he hadn't deftly pretended to avoid hearing such rumours. Eventually, the king had to intervene to put an end to the matter by hanging three troublemakers. But he did not stop bedding his paramour, and his nightly visits to Arianne Martell's orange pavilion grew rarer.

Ser Barristan was unsure where the rumours ended and the truth began. Arianne's aunt, Elia, was a faithful wife to Rhaegar, and Doran Martell had never taken a paramour or fathered any bastards. It was not for the kingsguard to judge or speculate, but the old knight knew the king was not happy with the situation. Few lords would be when their wife's reputation was in such dire straits. 

But Aegon would do nothing so long as he needed the Dornish. And House Martell could not abandon him either, for they needed him just as much as he needed them, especially after it got out that Quentyn had converted to the old Rhoynish worship and no longer followed the Seven, which put him further at odds with his future bannermen. The Dornish lords were not overly pious men, but the Seven had millennia to seep their influence into the sands of Dorne, and it added yet another issue on House Martell's already burdened shoulders. And the king wasn't afraid to leverage it, turning Doran Martell's failure as a father and a Prince of Dorne to his advantage. 

It was a new side of Rhaegar's son that Ser Barristan had not seen before. Aegon had grown not only as a warrior but also as a king. His demeanour was inscrutable, and he deftly used the feuds and dissatisfaction of his vassals and followers to his advantage.

"Are you going to try and challenge Stark to a trial of the seven tomorrow?" Jon Connington asked bluntly as soon as all the other lords left the tent.

"Perhaps," Aegon deflected. As of late, he had kept his thoughts close to his chest, even from Ser Barristan and Connington, who had raised him. "The parley will allow me to get a measure of my uncle and the rest. It wouldn't hurt to pick out the most capable warriors with the retinue tomorrow, too. Ser Barristan, I will entrust that task to you–make sure you pick out the seven finest killers in my army. But only ones that won't hurt my chain of command."

Barristan bowed. "It shall be done, Your Grace."

"Don't forget to include our dear Maelor, Ser," Quentyn tutted. "The man's boasts alone could defeat any warrior Stark puts forth."

"Now is not time for personal feuds, Quentyn," Aegon waved dismissively. 

"I still think meeting Stark is a waste of time," Jon Connington gruffed out, face lined with worry. "What if he tries something?"

"Weren't you the one who dismissed his sorcerous abilities?" Ser Barristan countered.

"I dismissed their ability to win a war against courage, blood, and steel, not their presence, Ser. Magic is unmatched in trickery, and that priestess from Asshai… she worries me. Has there been a more unholy fusion of a dark adept trained in the Shadow Lands converting to the bloodiest aspect of the Old Gods?" 

"If you listen to the septons with us, she's nothing more than a charlatan and a fraud." Quentyn leaned forward. "A pity we failed to push forth a High Septon of our own to banish such pretenders."

He sounded more mocking than remorseful. 

"Perhaps you have some Rhoynish water mages hidden in your sleeve to counter her dark ways?" Connington asked lightly. "No? A pity. You've spent almost all of your life in Dorne, Prince Martell, and you've yet to realise the full extent of the insidiousness of the arcane and its practitioners."

Quentyn Martell's practice of the old Rhoynar ways was another source of disgruntlement and future conflict within Aegon's ranks. 

"You speak as if the Septons are of any help in anything that doesn't involve prayer," the prince scoffed. "Renly's downfall began when he involved the Faith in the war, and it is for the better that we didn't follow in his footsteps. We would have lacked the legitimacy of the Most Devout even if we did so, making any High Septon elected by us nothing more than a farce."

"We'd still need to bring a septon to preside over any Trial of the Seven," Ser Barristan pointed out.

"Even if I do issue such a challenge, it doesn't mean they'll accept it right away or at all," Aegon huffed. "If only Waynwood or Hightower weren't so incompetent…"

"Baelor Hightower was a skilled knight and an experienced commander," Connington said. "I wouldn't call it incompetence. Cersei's daughter is the cunning one there–she forced him to stay out of fury and besiege Winterfell by killing his brother. Shrewd move, considering she invested Hightower in a campaign he had almost no chance of winning, where the alternative would have seen the war in the North rage for years if Baelor had taken White Harbour instead."

The king took a sip from his flask of wine and glared at the map as if it would let him figure out an easy path to victory.

"We can hardly change the past. I don't fear a battle or a duel, but the odds are stacked too much against me," he said with a sigh. "Fighting against my uncle feels like trying to catch a storm–he keeps outmanoeuvring me and slowly but surely closes any gaps or opportunities I could exploit to my advantage. Everything that could be levied against us–harassing the supply lines through the Sea of Dorne, scouting, exploiting the alliances and the advantage of food, weather, and terrain, Eddard Stark has done. How do you fight someone so meticulous like this?"

"You catch them off guard, so they have no time to prepare," Ser Barristan offered.

"Yet that was never a path opened to us," Aegon groused. "Even if my uncle agrees to a trial of the seven and we win, it doesn't mean Tommen and the army across the river will bend the knee, merely that they might fight with slightly different commanders. The die has been cast, and now we have to play with what we have. I will fight regardless, but I feel it's far from enough to grant us victory."

"Then don't fight fairly," Quentyn said, a sly smile forming on his face. "I imagine Lord Tully, Lord Stark and his sons, Lord Blackwood, Bracken, Royce, and everyone of importance will attend the parley tomorrow. If we can get them in one fell swoop-" 

"Madness!" Ser Barristan roared. "Have you taken a leave of your senses to propose something so-"

"He has a point," Jon Connington interrupted, scarred face hardening with resolve. "Yet it's not a matter of should we but could we. Pulling off such a thing is easier said than done; Stark is likely to be on guard and bring equal numbers to any negotiations, and they have already declined any such locations for a meet that would favour us."

"You would have me become kinslayer in the vilest of ways, Jon?" There was a glint of disappointment in Aegon's eyes. "I came here to make things right, not to leave a legacy of treachery and destruction."

"If it will keep you alive, Your Grace," Jon Connington bowed his head. "If it would see you alive and victorious, sitting on the Iron Throne and ruling the realm, I am willing to do anything. I'm willing to dirty my hands and smear my name and doom myself to the Seven Hells."

Quentyn eagerly rubbed his hands, looking far more excited than Barristan had seen him in moons.

"It is not a bad idea, too," the Dornish prince said. "House Stark created a precedent by killing Gunthor Hightower during a parley. If we succeed, we can place the blame on Winterfell, saying they broke the negotiations. Once all the witnesses have been disposed of, who's to gainsay us when we say they did it again?"

The griffin lord grew thoughtful. "Yes, that could work. And with their commanders dead, the enemy army will be in chaos, and we can use that to attack. A decisive battle where the enemy is scattered."

"And pray tell what happens if you fail?" Ser Barristan asked darkly. "Lord Stark was poisoned during his tenure as a Hand, Robb Stark was nearly assassinated twice, and the Blackfish was killed after agreeing to disarm and take the Black with his men. Even if none of the skullduggery was done by us, they have as much reason to trust our word as we have theirs."

"It doesn't matter," Quentyn replied with his infuriating smile. "In the Game of Thrones, you win, or you die. We either die a slow death later or grasp our chance at victory. If we win, nobody will gainsay us-"

Aegon slammed his fist on the table, face reddening with rage.

"I will gainsay it!" He hissed out, stabbing a finger at Quentyn and glaring at Jon Connington. "Perhaps you have forgotten, my lords, but you speak of my family here. I didn't expect this from you, Griff."

"Honour and virtues don't win wars, Your Grace." Jon Connington met his gaze without blinking. "To this day, I still regret the Battle of the Bells. I could have ended the Usurper there, and it would have been the end of it. I could have burned the Stony Sept to cinders and dragged Robert Baratheon's charred bones from the ashes to show Arryn, Stark, and Tully, breaking their morale before a decisive battle. You would be in King's Landing, and Rhaegar would have sat upon the Iron Throne. Yet your father fought honourably; he fought valiantly like I foolishly did, and he also lost. The truth is that only victory matters in the end."

"Swallow your grief, Your Grace," the Dornish Prince advised, voice filled with understanding. "You cannot falter if you desire the crown, not even against your kin who have raised their banners and stand in your way. There can be forgiveness and reconciliation once you're done, not before."

Aegon took a heavy breath and closed his eyes. Ser Barristan wanted to disappear into the ground. He wanted to do something, anything, but as a white cloak, he would do nothing but observe and advise when requested. 

It was not the valiant enemies who were daunting, he realised, but the vile allies.

"And how, pray tell, will you orchestrate such an ambush on a neutral ground?" Ser Barristan asked after a minute of tense silence. "And you want to pretend, in the sight of both armies nonetheless. Lancers and horsemen are useless on the bridge, and there's nowhere to hide. Tommen's forces have skiffs and rafts and barges and ships and control much of the river. The Northmen have weirwood longbows, matching the Black Balaq's forty marksmen with their goldenheart bows."

"It doesn't matter," Aegon whispered. Then he opened his eyes, revealing two amethysts shining with resolve. "There will be no ambushes, treachery, or the like. I will challenge them myself to a trial by combat or by the seven."

Jon Connington and Quentyn Martell stared at the king as if he had grown a second head.

"It's too risky-"

"I shall be your champion, Your Grace," Ser Barristan offered, his heart filled with warmth. Finally, a worthy king, not a blind fool led by naked ambition or poisonous words.

"This is madness," Jon Connington shook his head. "What if you lose?" 

"Then I die." Aegon laughed. It was an easy laugh, rolling off his chest as his spine was ramrod straight and shoulders squared for the first time in what felt like moons. The worry weighing on his brow was now gone. "I grow tired of this farce. You call it a war, but it's merely a game of cat and mouse. There has been more than enough death and devastation in these lands, Jon. How many children were orphaned? How many wives weep for their husbands and children? How many were chased out of their homes? How many died far away from their homes for the cause of some king who cares not for them?"

"It is their lot," the Hand said. "Such is the way of the world."

"Perhaps it is so," the king agreed. "Yet look at Renly Baratheon–he did the same things you now advise me, but he not only failed but was reviled by all, even his bannermen. If I am to win the Iron Throne, why would I not be willing to put my life on the line?! Why would I stand in my warm hall, ordering my men to struggle and perish in the cold?"

"Let us not grow hasty out of pride, Aegon," Connington said, voice soft and full of pain. "Arrogance cuts as deep as any blade. We can find a way out, we always have before, with some prudent advice and contemplation-"

"It's the prudent advice and contemplation that have led us to this," Aegon bit back. "All those dirty tricks of scheming and cajoling the Highlords of the realm to betray their rightful lieges out of ambition and greed and for what? For what?!" The Hand and the Dornish Prince didn't dare meet his eyes. Incensed, the king continued. "I let go of my dignity and pride to follow your wise advice, which only led to mockery and failure. No more. Now, we do things as I see fit." 

Ser Barristan Selmy watched Connington's tired face contort in agony and indecision. Then, the hatred and self-loathing clashed with unwilling pride. Pride at the young man he had raised. 

"A Trial of the Seven, then?" he asked testily.

"Or a duel. Whatever comes first." Aegon's face softened, his voice turned low and pleading. "Will you fight me on this, Lord Hand, or stand by my side?"

"I…" the Griffin Lord swallowed, gloved hands balling into fists. "I shall follow, Your Grace. To wherever end you lead us."

Some of the tension in the king's shoulders eased, and for the first time since they entered the Stormlands, Ser Barristan saw him smile in a way that reached his eyes.

"I see. Prince Quentyn?" 

The Martell Prince rubbed his face, his grimace barely hiding his disgruntlement–he had not looked so displeased even when Aegon's paramour had fallen pregnant.

"Say you win the single combat or the Trial of the Seven. I doubt Tommen will give up the crown; at most, it will lower their morale. What then?"

"Then I fight until I win, or I die, so long as I do it with my head held high!"

A small smile slipped on Aegon's face, and yet… yet, it was the happiest Ser Barristan had seen the king. Not even when they first met, when Aegon was still green and untested, always brooding about one thing or worrying about another.

***

13th Day of the 9th Moon, 300 AC

The Golden Bridge

Barristan awoke and cursed his ageing body; his sleep was short and fretful. The respite of dreams was as brief as it was fleeting, and it could no longer rest his mind and body as well as it could when he was young. The white cloak's burden was heavy; it felt as light as a feather when he first picked it up and allowed little rest, but his old body struggled to keep up. And the burden was triple in times of strife, for war was a young man's due. The weariness and stiffness of age clung to his body ever since they had taken the field, and it got increasingly harder to shake it off with each following dawn. Soon would come the time when he would fail to shake it off at all and rest for eternity. Or perhaps Barristan will finally rest today.

His morning stretches barely chased the chill from his old bones, and he set on to garb himself for the daunting day. Dawn saw the air flush with snowfall, and the veil of white covering the world only thickened further. It gave the surroundings a look of cold innocence, untainted by brown stains of the mud below or human hands.

Outside, the first rays of the winter sun were lazily filtering through the encampment; the stillness was nearly complete as if time had stopped. Even most of the sentries had huddled silently near the nearest fire, and only a scant few souls patrolled the outer perimeter, seeking warmth in motion. 

Ser Barristan hastily summoned his new squire, a young boy named Ronnel Potter, to help him with the armour. His old squire had died three months ago to the chill, and the knight was too old to go without help for the mundane daily tasks and chores, so he picked up Ronnel, for his father had been one of the first to bend the knee to Aegon once he entered the Stormlands, and loyalty had to be rewarded.

He found Ser Russell Rogers and Rolly Duckfield shivering outside the royal tent, a thick layer of hoarfrost covering their reddened faces despite the nearby braiser and the thick, double-layered white cloak with fur and wool.

"Go wake up Ser Joss and Ser Mildred, then rest," he ordered, misty white clouds leaving his mouth with each word. The two white cloaks gratefully scurried away, their limbs stiff from the cold.

Out of Aegon's five white cloaks, Ser Joss Jordayne and Mildred Ashford–the newest addition and the young Lord Ashford's youngest uncle, were the most skilled after Ser Barristan.

Today, their skills would face the ultimate test.

Aegon was already awake, his squire Maric helping him put on his garments. Unlike Ser Barristan, the king seemed in good spirits; his movements flowed with ease in contrast to his previous stiffness and worry. His pale-gold locks and beard were trimmed neatly, revealing a youthful face underneath.

"The Lord Hand will accompany me today," he began, his speech slow and thoughtful. 

"Should I summon the men I have chosen?" 

"Nay. I have decided to take Prince Quentyn Martell from Dorne, Lord Richard Morrigen from the Stormlanders, Maelor Maegyr, and Ser Trystane Rivers from the Golden Company."

"Perhaps it would be wise to reduce the companions by one, Your Grace. A seven-man retinue counting the kingsguard will be a conspicuous number," the old knight advised.

"For what? The gods have not favoured me so far, and I doubt today is the day they shall do so," Aegon waved dismissively. 

Ser Barristan nodded mutely and sent off his squire to do the errand. 

"True. A strong pick for today's task, Your Grace–all warriors of proven repute and considerable skill save for Quentyn, five of whom are wielders of Valyrian Steel. But I believe it might be prudent to bring forth a Septon with us."

"A septon can always be invited once needed," Aegon said. Not if, but once–it seemed that the king's mind was set on a trial by combat, and neither a good night's sleep nor the freshness of a new day had changed his mind.

Within twenty minutes, the king was ready and waiting near the Golden Bridge with Ser Barristan, accompanied by two kingsguards still as statues. The rest of Aegon's retinue started to arrive. First was Maelor Maegyr, an elaborate arming doublet embroidered with white wings and purple scales, accenting his silver hair and violet eyes peeking underneath his elegant cloak of white fox fur 

Jon Connington was garbed in his crimson set of lobstered plate with a padded surcoat displaying the red and white griffin of Connington; Trystane Rivers marched to them clad in a Volantene suit of scale, purple silk, and ringmail, peeking underneath the gilded tabard of the Golden Company. Last to arrive were Prince Quentyn, wearing lamellar adorned by sun-shaped discs of polished bronze and Lord Richard Morrigen in an ornate panoply of silver-inlaid armour engraved with black crow wings along the pauldrons. 

"They're already waiting by the bridge," Jordyn, a man-at-arms, reported.

"Then, let us not dally any further," Aegon ordered, treading through the freshly fallen knee-deep snow covering the path to the Golden Bridge.

"This damned winter," Ser Trystane Rivers noted groggily as he glared at the dancing snowflakes as if they were his bitter rival. "If this continues, forget about retreating; we'll be too buried in snow to fight."

"Aye, the men can only shovel the snowfall so much before they get tired and hungry from the exertion and the cold," Ser Barristan agreed.

"Doesn't this mean the Stark horse on our side of the river won't be able to retreat either?" Quentyn asked, his teeth chattering as he desperately clung to his woollen cloak for warmth.

"Perhaps. But by the time we dig our way to the Northmen's camp, we'd either be noticed or too tired to swing a sword," Lord Morrigen noted hoarsely. "But if it continues snowing, it's not the snow you must fear but the cold. The thicker it is, the more it saps your strength and will to fight. And if it worsens, you will not see a sneak attack on the Northern horse before the Blackwater Rush freezes, and we will fight over the cold, ice-bound river."

Aegon continued marching through the snow, undaunted by the words. Barristan sighed; the young king seemed to have the right of it–the Seven did not favour him. If they did, the North would still be plagued by reavers and Reachmen, Harrold Hardying would be sieging King's Landing, Robb Stark would be stuck in the divided Reach, and Eddard Stark and Tommen Baratheon lost to a storm in the Narrow Sea. 

But what-ifs did not win wars or battles. 

They followed Aegon as he wove his way through layers of ditches, traps, hammered stakes, wagons, and palisades that turned the mouth of the bridge into a veritable fortress of a death maze. His black cloak dragged through the snow as the crimson three-headed dragon in the middle fluttered and twisted with each movement.

The king made an imposing figure, clad with dark-ruby-inlaid armour made by the finest Qohorik smith in Volantis, light and strong, practical and awe-inspiring. Aegon was everything a king ought to be: strong, charismatic, decisive, and skilled in arms.

Alas, today, he would face his greatest challenge, which would either see him take a decisive step towards the Iron Throne or be reduced to nothing but a footnote in the annals of history, along with the House of the Dragon. And Ser Barristan Selmy would back him to the hilt every step of the way.

Aegon greeted the vigilant hundred men-at-arms and knights that guarded the bridge's mouth, and the group proceeded forward. 

The bridge was cleared of most snow, but the new snowfall had the flagged paving below grow slippery; at least it was traversable, unlike the nearby fields on the side where it reached a man's chest. Aegon knew Jon Connington had reluctantly coordinated with the Northmen on the last day to send five men from each side to shovel the snow into the river. 

Surely enough, nine figures were waiting exactly halfway into the bridge underneath the banners of House Baratheon, Tully, Lannister, and Stark.

Red Wake Walder's looming figure could not be mistaken for anyone else, still proudly bearing the banner of House Stark on his halberd. 

"Damn, an actual set of Valyrian Steel armour," Ser Trystan Rivers whistled. "Gloves, pauldrons, greaves, vambraces, even. I thought it was a myth."

"The Volantine records state only the Forty's most powerful dragonlords owned one," Maelor added unhelpfully. "You can try your luck in the Ruins of the Freehold or the depths of the Sorrows if you want one."

"And die like every other fool who attempted it when I can just slay the wolf lord and pick up his complete set?"

"Enough chatter," Aegon huffed as they approached. Ser Barristan could see a squad of prepared warriors on the far side of the bridge–Lord Stark expected deception.

At the front stood Lord Stark in his imposing suit of dragonsteel scale; the delicate Valyrian glyphs inscribed on the dark metal looked like open wounds upon the armour under the morning light. 

By Stark's side were his two sons and a young, red-haired page resembling a younger, wilder version of Robb Stark. Further in the back were Lord Edmure Tully, Lord Reed, and Ser Devan Lannister; all seemed to be armoured under their cloaks save for the Crannoglord, who looked like a wraith in his elusive brown cloak that made Barristan's gaze slide away unconsciously. The last member of Stark's retinue was not a man but Lord Stark's silvery direwolf, who was lazily lounging on the stone railing, looking at the Blackwater's rapids.

Yet Ser Barristan Selmy's gaze was stuck on the young scarred warrior with the same colouring and long face as Stark; that could only be Jon Snow. All his senses told him the former bastard was the most dangerous foe here, and there was a chill coming from him, with a glint of ice peeking underneath his tightly pulled cloak. 

The two groups met face to face, stopping ten yards from each other and inspecting each other.

"Uncle," Aegon nodded lightly, breaking the silence. Ser Barristan could see the tension in his gait despite his easy words. "Cousins, My Lords."

"You have been deceived, Ser," Eddard Stark's voice was kind but firm, a surprising change from the fervent denouncement that the old knight expected. Even Aegon seemed to be caught off guard. "Deceived by a vile eunuch and his ilk, for you share no blood or kinship with House Stark."

"Of course, you would say such a thing to preserve your pristine honour," Connington barked out. "Everyone knew Lyanna ran away from that whoremonger Robert for Rhaegar's protection."

"Truly?" Jon Snow drawled, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Suppose said protection means a married man with a wife and a child would take advantage of her instead of returning her to the family or mediating the conflict and gaining House Baratheon and Stark's backing in the process. You can say many things of Rhaegar Targaryen, but his deeds speak louder."

"We are not here to discuss the failings of the past, my lord." Aegon raised his hand, quieting Connington. "Decisions were taken in haste and fury, and such decisions often lead to woe. But must you so firmly denounce my lineage, uncle?"

Eddard Stark gazed at Aegon, his previously unreadable face softened slightly.

"You truly believe you're Lyanna's boy, do you?"

"Aye, I do," came the sad reply. Lord Stark's face twisted with surprise for a heartbeat, but the moment was so fleeting Ser Barristan might as well have imagined it. "I trust in Lord Connington. The man has no reason to deceive me."

"And you, Lord Connington, trust Varys?" Stark regarded the griffin lord as still as a statue. "Or did you believe what you desperately wanted to believe once the eunuch promised you your Silver Prince, even if it was merely his child?"

"What would you know, Stark?" Connington's voice thickened with loathing. "Lyanna and Rhaegar were together for over half a year before Aerys summoned him. Varys claimed Lady Lyanna gave birth long before you arrived in the Tower of Joy, and anyone who can do sums knows it."

Jon Snow laughed as if he had heard the funniest jape in his life. But his echoing laughter halted abruptly as Lord Stark placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Aegon, you have been honest with me, so, in turn, I shall return the favour," Lord Stark said. "After Pentos handed over Magister Illyrio Mopatis for his attempts to assassinate me and Tommen, he revealed the deception in full."

"We have heard that story before," Quentyn waved dismissively. "The pained delusion of a poor cheesemonger you tortured to death."

"Then it won't hurt you to hear it again," Eddard Stark intoned coldly, cowing the Dornish Prince with a glare. Then, his eyes softened as he looked at the king. "You, Aegon, are the child of Illyrio Mopatis, grandson of Aerion Brightflame through a Lyseni bastard, and Serena Blackfyre, sister of Varys the Spider and daughter of Daemon IV Blackfyre."

"I…" Aegon hesitated, visibly confused by Stark's sincerity. The old knight understood him; it was easy to hate or to fight someone who's baying for your head and hates your very guts, but smiles and kindness from those who you consider kin could be disarming as they were confusing. 

"It seems convenient that both schemers you denounce are dead, Lord Stark," Ser Barristan pointed out sternly, even if it burned his tongue to defend a scheming eunuch and a greedy cheesemonger. "Varys and Mopatis are now gone and unable to refute such claims, and it's easy to slander their names."

Connington scoffed. "You have still to say what you saw in the Tower of Joy!"

"Even if he's the son of Lyanna and Rhaegar, what does it matter?" the stone-faced Edmure Tully scoffed; his reddish beard looked like frozen blood underneath the layer of hoarfrost. "When a married man has a child outside his marriage bed, the child is a bastard."

"Would he?" the Dornish Prince asked, tilting his head. "Rhaegar wouldn't be the first Targaryen to marry two women or without the knowledge of the parents in question. A slight to my aunt for sure, but the precedent is there."

Edmure Tully looked like an angry bear, then, but Robb Stark whispered something in his ear, and the Tully Lord's face halted with a snort.

"A precedent that should have been contested by the Faith and House Martell," Jon Snow noted, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Yet the Faith is too weak to even elect a High Septon, and you will close your eyes as you see fit so long as your sister is Queen."

"Too many what-ifs and should-haves and what-nots." Lord Morrigen said. "Our swords will do the talking, and the gods will discern the truth of the matter through battle!"

"Your desire to turn falsehoods into truth through the threat of violence is unsurprising," the Lannister knight mocked.

"You dare-"

"Enough of this," Aegon clenched his fists. "Is there truly nothing I can do to change your mind, Lord Stark?"

Eddard Stark looked ten years older then. His usually steely eyes looked tired and reluctant to speak any further.

Instead, Jon Snow took a step forward.

"I would like for House Stark to speak together with Aegon. We promise no harm shall come to you."

Quentyn and Connington exploded together. "Absolutely no way-"

"I am willing," Aegon said, face flushed from the cold as he stared at Lord Stark in challenge.

"Your Grace, there's three of them, warriors of renown, and only one of you," Ser Barristan cautioned, warily gazing at Jon Snow, Robb Stark, and their father. They were all clad and ready to battle. Snow wielded Dark Sister if the rumours were true, Eddard Stark's icy blade was no less dangerous, and the Young Wolf would outrange them all with the dragonsteel greatsword Ice.

It was not a favourable arrangement at all.

Jon Connington furiously leaned towards the king, face reddened.

"That was not what we agreed to do, Aegon," he whispered furiously. "Even a challenge would have been better-" 

"Peace, Jon." Aegon squeezed his shoulder in reassurance, earning himself a stiff nod from the griffin lord. "A talk would not hurt; a challenge can be issued anytime. I would see what they have to say in private–I dreamed of such a moment for a long, long time, even if I wish the circumstances were far more favourable. Lord Stark, what say you?"

"Let us get this over with," was the resigned response. "Take Ser Barristan and one of your white cloaks to even the numbers if you must."

With a curt nod, the Red Wake, Devan Lannister, Edmure Tully, and Lord Reed's cloaked figure and the young page retreated a stone's throw away.

"What about the direwolf?" Jon Connington's gloved finger stabbed at Winter's form that was lazily curled by the stone railing with its tongue lolled out.

"You can get one more of yours to stay if you think they're worth as much as my direwolf," Eddard Stark said, voice tinged with mirth.

"I'll trust you," Aegon said as Ser Barristan and the griffin lord shook their heads in exasperation. "Ser Barristan and Lord Connington will remain by my side. They're practically family. Ser Joss, Ser Mildred, Lord Morrigen, Prince Quentyn, Ser Trystane, and Commander Maelor retreat thirty paces."

The men shared a few disgruntled and suspicious glances–the Martell Prince most irked of them all but obeyed.

"So much for House Stark's private meeting," Jon Snow murmured unhappily but made no move to stop as the six men measured each other. 

The sound of the Blackwater rush below drowned all other noise, ensuring the privacy of their talk. 

The Northmen all looked unbothered by the chill and the snow. Aegon was still young and strong, and the winter's chill didn't seem to affect him as badly as Jon Connington, who looked as weather-worn from the cold as Ser Barristan felt. He had to hide his gloved hands in the hems of his cloak to prevent them from freezing. 

"This is as far as I'm willing to show my sincerity," Aegon began, face unreadable. "I trust Jon Connington and Ser Barristan Selmy with my life."

"And do you trust them to keep a secret?" The bastard asked, resignation seeping into his tone.

Aegon didn't hesitate even for a heartbeat. "I do."

"Jon, are you certain?" Stark asked, cautious for the first time since the meeting.

"It's worth a try." Jon Snow ran a gloved hand through his silky dark locks. "Aegon looks like a surprisingly level-headed and honest man, and as they just showed, the enemy's claims could be waved away with suspicion."

The Lord of Winterfell sighed.

"Robb?"

"Whatever Jon decides is fine by me, father."

"Very well, then." Eddard Stark's voice turned sorrowful. "I suppose it doesn't hurt to try, but I'd rather try something else first." He unstrapped the lacquered sword sheath crowned by the handle of frost from his belt and tossed it at Aegon, who deftly caught it.

"The infamous blade of frost that could rival Valyrian Steel in sharpness, durability and weight?" he uttered, eyes transfixed on the ice-hewn hilt. 

"Uncle Benjen could wield it without being burned by the cold," the bastard was the one to answer. "As could everyone else in the family. Rickon and Sansa can touch it, and so can Robb and I. All the Black Brothers of Castle Black tried their luck but to no avail."

"Of the three dozen men that tried in King's Landing, Robert Baratheon and the councillors amongst them, only Lord Stark managed to wield it unburned," Ser Barristan reluctantly recounted.

"That's hardly proof of anything but Stark's skill in sorcery," Jon Connington bit out. "As far as we know, you can be lying, or this could be some secret knowledge passed down in your family. Your ability or lack of to wield some magical blade of ice does not prove or disprove Aegon's lineage in any way."

"Peace, Jon. I myself have been curious, and it doesn't hurt to try," Aegon said, peeling the glove off his hand. His fingers cautiously reached the hilt of blueish frost, and a pained hiss escaped his lips as soon as his skin made contact. 

"Northern sorcery," the griffin lord said accusingly while the king looked at his reddened finger wide-eyed with surprise and disappointment.

"Let me spell it to you, you stubborn mule," Jon Snow said, exhaling slowly. "There's no way Aegon was Lyanna's son because when Eddard Stark arrived at the Tower of Joy, he found her in a bed of blood, having just birthed a son." 

"Impossible!" Ser Barristan denied, ignoring the oddity of Jon Snow referring to his father as Eddard Stark despite being so close. "The whole realm would know."

"And who would tell them, Ser?" Stark countered, face calm. "My dead sister or the kingsguard who joined her? The midwife they had killed? I made sure to erase every trace of Rhaegar's folly before I left that thrice-cursed tower of grief. Only Howland Reed and I survived the ordeal from the adults, and my dear friend hadn't left Greywater Watch since the Rebellion until I summoned him for the royal visit two years ago."

"And what happened to that child?" Aegon asked, voice shaken. "If you saw Lyanna's son, what did you do with him!?" 

"I claimed him as my own and raised it."

"What?" Jon Connington asked, blinking in confusion. "Why would you do that?"

"Why wouldn't I raise my nephew?" Stark countered icily. "Why would I leave him to the mercy of the likes of Tywin Lannister or a vengeful Robert Baratheon? Or the scheming hands of the royal court who would play him like a puppet for their little games?!"

"And where is that nephew of yours?" Aegon asked, wildly looking around. Robb and Eddard Stark silently glanced at Jon Snow. "He should be eight and ten, the same age as your firstborn–no. This… doesn't make any sense."

"Aye," Jon Snow chuckled. "Rhaegar sired me on Lyanna. I know as much as you about the whys and the hows and the wheres, but the result is clear."

"What sort of nonsense is this, Stark?" Connington hissed out. "Claiming Rhaegar's son and raising him as your bastard?!" 

"As opposed to being Rhaegar's bastard?" Snow countered. "It would be a surprise if I lived past the crib, even if Rhaegar won. The Dornish are not exactly known for their honourable behaviour or restraint, and House Stark would be nought but rebels."

Aegon was in shock, his mouth closing and opening, yet no words came out as he stared at Jon Snow.

"This has to be a lie," the griffin lord scoffed dismissively. "A bad jest–don't listen to their lies, Your Grace. Tell them, Ser Barristan. Tell them what nonsense this is!"

However, Ser Barristan's full attention was now on Eddard Stark's bastard. His features were undeniably the same as Eddard Stark's: steely grey eyes and dark hair with the Northern's usual brogue to go with them. Yet his frame, while slightly taller than Eddard and Robb Stark, was not as burly. His build was slight and agile, like a shadowcat. The same build Rhaegar had. 

His nose reminded Ser Barristan of Aerys, and the thin, dragonlike brows were all Rhaegar but without the silver. His nose and mouth were not as pronounced as Eddard and Robb Stark's. And his hair… it was a brown so dark it might as well have been black, but it lacked the shaggy look of the Northmen and looked almost like flowing silk.

Now that the words were spoken aloud, Barristan could see it. Jon Snow didn't have any of the classical characteristics of the House of the Dragon, but he could hardly be called a Northman. It was like a hodgepodge of both, and if he ignored the scars, the bastard would be handsome enough to make many a maiden swoon.

And if there was a grain of truth in his talent in hand-and-a-half swords, Ser Barristan could see how Jon Snow could be Rhaegar's son. 

"This is Dark Sister." Snow tapped the sword on his belt, the hilt of seamless weirwood fused with steel in the way no smith ought to be capable of. "Passed onto me by Brynden Rivers."

"Bloodraven was lost Beyond the Wall half a century ago," Ser Barristan pointed out. "And if he still somehow lived, he would be over a hundred and twenty by now!"

"Greenseers can wed with the weirwood roots to linger on in life, and Brynden Rivers was one," Jon responded. "He lived just long enough to pass me Dark Sister-"

"Don't tell me you believe this codswallop, Ser," Connington's angry voice awoke Ser Barristan.

"Look at him," the old knight waved at Jon Snow. "Cool your head and look at his face, Connington."

"What's there to look at? It's just a ruse, nothing more than a lying Northern bastard whose head is filled with lies and magic. Your Grace, let us issue the challenge and be done with this farce!"

Aegon, however, remained unmoved by Connington's desperate urgings.

"Tell me, Lord Stark," he croaked out, voice raw and jagged. "Is this true? Will you swear upon it on all that you hold dear?"

"Don't buy into this mummery-"

"Silence!" Aegon's face twisted with fury. "You will hold your tongue if you still respect me. If you don't, does it mean you believe I'm not Rhaegar's son?"

Connington gaped like a fish, torn between disbelief and fury at the betrayal of the boy he thought son, while Aegon turned back to the Lord of Winterfell.

"Lord Stark… please… the truth. Swear upon it."

Eddard Stark sighed, clasping his hands as if for a prayer. 

"I swear on it. I swear on my sister's name and all I hold dear that Lyanna placed Jon Snow in my hands with her dying breath, feverish with pain and fear," Stark vowed, his voice filled with pain. "Just like I swore to raise the babe as my own, crowns and claims that almost shattered my family be damned! And I swear that everything I have spoken regarding Illyrio Mopatis and his vile plotting has been the truth. I can call Howland Reed if you wish–he was there every step of the way."

Ser Barristan couldn't help but believe the man. Eddard Stark lacked a single deceptive bone in his body, and to go through such a farce if it weren't true… Many called him the Usurper's Dog, but the Lord of Winterfell was the sort of man to put his kin first before crowns and vows. Many forgot that men of duty held a duty to their families first by laws much older than kings and crowns, and these unspoken laws ran strongest within the North. 

The old knight was numb. And he… couldn't help but believe Lord Stark. The man did not look like a liar or an ambitious cheat. Stark did not act like one either, conducting himself with honour and dignity since he had taken the mantle of the Lord of Winterfell. Ser Barristan was one of the few who knew that Quiet Wolf could have taken the Iron Throne after the rebellion, and Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon would have supported him.

And if Eddard Stark wasn't lying, he had no reason to lie. He had the winning hand; he had Aegon's army cornered and all the advantages, which meant that he could only be speaking the truth.

This was terrible. The memory of Varys' flowery words still echoed in Ser Barristan's ears. Had he always been so blind… or had the Spider just told him everything he had wanted to hear, and he had latched onto it in desperation?

"Damn it," Ser Barristan whispered, his resolve shattering to a million pieces. Nothing he had done mattered. It was all a lie, a Blackfyre ploy for real.

While Jon Connington was too blinded by his hatred and thirst for vengeance, Aegon was bright and quick of wit and reached a similar conclusion to Ser Barristan. 

Aegon's kneels buckled, but Ser Barristan's arms reached out and held him as if they had a mind of their own. The old knight grew even number, looking at the young face filled with despair.

"So… it was all a lie?" He laughed angrily. "A lie. A lie… and they couldn't even tell me?"

"Lies are most convincing when those who repeat them believe it fully," Jon Snow offered kindly.

"It makes too much sense now. Seven above… I see how Magister Mopatis was so quick to gift me the Sword of Kings," Aegon rasped out, glancing at the snowy sky. "He doubtlessly thought Blackfyre was my legacy… and I just accepted it without a second thought. How could I have been such a fool? How many souls have I led to their death for other men's ambitions?"

"You still have a claim on the Iron Throne by way of your Blackfyre mother," Robb Stark added helpfully. "Not as strong as Jon's claim."

"Pox on claims! I had a father. A father!" Aegon hissed out as if he hadn't heard a word from the Young Wolf. "A man who sired me but didn't even want to come and face me, speak to me, as a ruse to prop up some long-dead bastard's ambition!"

Jon Connington's patience reached the breaking point, and he spat on the snow, his harsh blue eyes sparkling with anger. "I see what you want to do now, Stark. Sow doubt in Aegon's mind before the battle. Truly insidious for a vile sorcerer like you. Do not listen to their words, Your Grace!"

"Leave." Aegon, eyes bloodshot and stormy with emotion, turned to the man who raised him. "You loathe the Spider more than anyone else, yet you refuse to believe that a eunuch would play you like a piper to his own ends?"

"...Very well, Your Grace," Jon Connginton bowed deeply and retreated, his face stiffer than ever. "I will be waiting back in the encampment."

Ser Barristan had a terrible premonition at the resolve etched on the griffin lord's face as he turned around, and the crunching of his boots in the snow grew distant. 

But could he even bring himself to care anymore? It was all a lie. A war, a marriage, a claim based on a lie. How many oaths had he taken in the name of this lie? How many lives had he killed for it?

"The gods make a fool out of me," Aegon lamented. "I… I was about to be a king. My whole life, I was prepared for it, and now it's gone… What do I do now?"

"Whatever you want," Jon Snow pointed out. "The best thing about being unfettered like a bastard is your ability to choose. There are no duties and obligations to burden you unless you choose them. You're free to wield your blade for whatever reason you like or even put it down now–you're the master of your own destiny, and… the sky is the limit."

"What if I choose to press my claim and fight?" Aegon asked, voice hoarse. 

"Then we shall fight you," Eddard Stark offered, not unkindly. "But the lone fact that you stand here, unwilling to press a false claim after finding the truth, speaks of your staunch character and strong sense of honour."

"Why are you so–" the silver-haired man choked, looking completely lost. "Why are you so kind to me? You all denounced me as if I was the vilest mummer in the world before, and now, now you treat me better than my own supposed kin!?"

"Was it your fault that you were deceived?" Jon Snow retorted. "We can only judge by your deeds and what we see with our eyes. You look like a decent enough man, one who does not seek war for ambition and personal glory. We've had our fill of bloodshed, of war, and do not lust for it."

"War? I dream of peace, of summer every night," Aegon let out a raspy, wheezing laughter. "But no matter how much I wish or dream or think of it, it's far, far out of reach. I don't know how to make this mess right. I'm tangled too deeply in this web of lies," he realised. "Damn it…"

"The right thing and the easy thing to do are rarely the same," Eddard Stark lamented. "I can give you advice, should you wish for it."

"Might as well. Your wisdom and prudence would be more than welcome, now that I am too angry and disappointed to think."

The Lord of Winterfell sighed. "You have the right of it–your situation is a proper mess. But in such cases, it's better to speak the truth and face the adversity with your head held high."

"...I can do that, but then what?!" Aegon's hands clawed at his face, his purple eyes filled with despair. "I only know how to be a king. A false king with no kingdom or crown!"

"You should let go of those lofty ambitions," Jon Snow coughed. "I would have suggested the Wall. Twenty years of service would have seen this whole mess blow over, but you have a child on the way with your paramour, no?"

Aegon only looked more frustrated.

The bastard's eyes grew distant. "Let me ask yet another question. Even if you're not Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, Son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, would some of your men follow you regardless, wherever you choose to do?"

"I…" Aegon swallowed, torn between hesitation. "Maybe? I don't know anymore. I feel like the biggest fool, and only the motley is missing. The world seems mad, and nothing can surprise me anymore."

"You will soon find you're not alone, and things are not nearly as bad," Jon Snow advised. "With character such as yours, there will be those who follow the man, not the crown or the name. Those rare men whose hearts are true can only be revealed in times of adversity."

"And what shall I do with them?" Aegon shook his head. "Why would I need leal swords, now that I know my claim has never existed?"

Jon Snow sighed, his eyes growing distant.

"The world is not as kind as to afford you peace even if you put down the sword. Take them with you to Essos and treasure them dearly. You can settle in the Summer Isles–they would welcome skilled warriors who loathe slaves with open arms. You can be a captain of a merchant ship, a travelling warlord, a sellsword commander, or, if you're daring enough, carve up a kingdom in some corner of wartorn Essos. You've spent your whole life learning how to wage war and rule, so you might as well put it to good use. Bring freedom, order, and prosperity where there is none, and forge your own destiny by the tip of your sword."

"What about the mess here?"

"Should you renounce your claim and reveal your lineage, it is no longer your issue to deal with," Eddard Stark responded. "Tell the lords that agree to bend the knee by tomorrow they will be accepted into the King's Peace, but this is as far as my mercy stretches. I can even throw a royal pardon for the men who do not wish to swear to Tommen and decide to follow you instead–if they renounce their titles and lands, that is."

"This still feels like a dream. But, I must give my thanks, Lord Stark." Aegon bowed his head slightly, slowly lowered to the ground, picked up the sheathed ice blade from the snow and tossed it back to Lord Stark. "I suppose there's no use moping around for much longer. I have a proper mess to untangle. Part of the Golden Company's commanders must be on this ruse, too."

"I would appreciate it if you kept my parentage a secret," Jon Snow said as Aegon turned to leave.

"You have my word."

"Aegon," Lord Stark called out as the young silver-haired man was about to leave. "Some of those who followed you all the way here might not be as happy with your decision."

"I suspect as much," Aegon muttered, voice tight. "I never expected this to end without bloodshed anyway. But at least… at least, if blood shall be spilt, it won't be in service of some grand deception."

With a final nod, Aegon Blackfyre–or was it Aegon Mopatis? Aegon Blackfyre turned around and paused by Ser Barristan's side. He gave him a questioning look, but the old knight couldn't bring himself to care. Sighing, the silver-haired man marched back to his retinue, who seemed to be arguing with Connington in the distance, while Ser Barristan felt too old, too tired, and too… empty to care.

The Starks all looked at Aegon's back, mixed feelings on their faces. Surprise, hope, and some… self-loathing?

Before, Ser Barristan would have been cautious, suspicious of such matters, but now it didn't matter. The old knight felt boneless, unable to move as if the fire that had driven him so far had been extinguished.

"Are you not going to follow him, Ser Barristan?" Eddard Stark's voice echoed over the Blackwater's riversong, awakening him from his trance. 

The knight let out a hoarse chuckle, "What's the point? He's not the rightful king–or any king at all. I'm just a blind old fool. I should go back to Tommen and beg his pardon, take the Black–or even swear my sword to you, Jon Snow."

"A bastard turned lord like me has no need for sworn shields or white cloaks," was the icy response.

"Tommen has seven kingsguard and does not need an eighth. You swore a vow, Ser Barristan," Eddard Stark reminded, but his words were not as biting or cold as the old knight deserved, but his gaze was distant. "Your sword belongs to Aegon."

"Aegon Targaryen, not Aegon Mopatis or Blackfyre," Ser Barristan riposted bitterly. "And as much as I want to lie to myself, words are wind. My good name shall be forever tarnished and my honour–soiled."

"Piss on that! You tutored that young man," Jon Snow bit out harshly. "You nurtured and guided and advised him with all your heart and skill. Is he not the squire you still thought had earned his spurs?"

"Aye, Aegon is no king with claim to crowns," Robb Stark chimed in. "But there's no need to follow Aegon the king when you can follow Aegon the knight. I've seen pious men twice his age with less honour and strength of character than he. If not Aegon, who will you follow?"

Ser Barristan opened his mouth to speak yet found no words to say.

"I will have to extract a vow of secrecy from you, Ser Barristan," Eddard Stark demanded, his voice full of steel. "I guarded this secret for nearly two decades, and while Jon parted with it in hopes of avoiding further bloodshed, I would rather it not get out."

"I promise," the old knight vowed, his words coming out weak and hoarse as the will to fight left him.

Seemingly satisfied, the Northmen left, leaving Ser Barristan alone on the bridge with his failures and disappointments. He felt cold, so cold. If he just stayed here and let the snow cover him and drink away his warmth, he would end his disgrace here.

It was so tempting, so easy to just give up. He didn't even want to think and move anymore. It would be so simple to just remain here until his blood froze and his heart stopped beating, a fitting end for an old fool like him. Ser Barristan the Old, Ser Barristan the Fool. It was too easy to give up. All he had was his sword, but he had lost the conviction to wield it. 

But Ser Barristan Selmy never gave up.

It felt like an eternity had passed until he mustered the strength to move.

His cold limbs felt like lead, and his bones creaked, and joints protested with each step he took, but he turned around and headed back to the army encampment; only when he was a few yards away from the entrance did he raise his head and frown.

There were no guards, neither at the mouth of the bridge nor at the perimeter, and everything sounded like a chaotic mess.

The camp looked like it, too–someone had released the horses through the camp, the steeds rampaging out of fear and anger while the men were shouting, cursing, running away, trying to fight, or brawling with each other under the curtain of falling snow.

Ser Russel Rogers waylaid him by the snow-filled ditches, his face filled with despair.

"Ser Barristan, you have to stop this madness!"

"Stop what?"

The young white cloak shook, looking as tense as he was angry. The knight was accepted in the kingsguard only because he was Aegon's distant kin by House Stark–a connection that never existed.

"Aegon claims he's a Blackfyre, and he's withdrawing his claim and bending the knee and that all who accept the king's peace will be granted a pardon," the frantic words erupted like a jar of wildfire. "Lord Connington and Prince Quentyn claim he has been bewitched by the wolf lord, and they tried to subdue him, but the Stormlords and the tiger cloaks drew steel, and Lord Yronwood loudly decried Martell as a traitor, and-"

"Take a breath, Ser," the old knight interrupted, squeezing the worried man's shoulder.

So Aegon had truly gone with it.

"But–they're fighting, Ser Barristan, they are all killing each other. What if the Northmen attack now?"

"I'm no sorcerer and can stop this any more than I can stop the snow from falling," Ser Barristan replied sadly. "What is bound to happen shall happen."

"Then… then… what do we do? We're knights of the kingsguard, and we're supposed to-" his voice cracked, "t-to protect the king. But what do we do when the king abandons the crown?"

"I… I don't know, Ser."

Shaking his head, Ser Barristan made his way into the encampment. He had vested his heart, effort, and loyalty in this endeavour, and the least he could do was watch it crumble, no matter how ugly.

Surely enough, the clash of steel and the battle cries could be heard from afar. As he passed the palisade and the ditch, he saw it, and it was worse than Ser Russel had claimed.

Before the old knight's eyes, Martell men-at-arms and knights fought Yronwood and Dayne, and it was hard to tell who had started it or who was winning; the Golden Company was fighting amongst each other, and the Stormlords were assaulting Blackmont and Manwoody as if some feverish madness had taken the hearts of the men. A proper mess, where reason and loyalty had long given way to savagery and a desire to clear old feuds and avenge previous slights, imagined or real. 

Some yelled, "Treason, treason!"

Others cried back with, "Betrayal!"

"Sorcery!"

"The king has been bewitched. Halt this madness, HALT!"

"Fool, it's the Blackfyres; kill them all!!" 

"Men of Dorne! Capture him!"

"For King Tommen!"

"Get these filthy sellswords, they're all flush with dragonsteel!"

"Men of the Stormlands, kill those Dornish bastards!"

"Someone get a woods-witch here!"

"Septon, septon!"

"I need a maester!"

"Stop, what are you doing, fools?!"

"Fuck this, shit, I'm getting the pardon and getting out of this shithole!"

In every direction he looked, chaos and bloodshed only spilt further, and the panicked horses were running through the mess, trampling the fallen men alive.

Yet all of them seemed to avoid Ser Barristan with caution.

Aegon, with Blackfyre in hand, was cornered near the hall by Jon Connington and a score of Golden Company veterans while the Tiger Cloaks were trying to fight their way in. The griffin lord wanted to capture him yet was wary of harming Aegon at the same time, and the sellswords seemed rightfully wary of Blackfyre's rippled edge. Aegon was not alone either; by his side were Ser Mildred Ashford and a limping Ser Rolly Duckfield.

He was not a king. Ser Barristan owed Aegon no fealty; he had no duty towards him. Ser Barristan's service had been procured by deception most vile, and the Seven themselves would consider it null and void, as with any vows given. A proper kingsguard, a proper knight, would find a righteous liege to serve.

With the deception shattered, Aegon was nobody, just an offshoot of Blackfyre and another royal bastard line. He held no lands, no titles, no claims, no lordships, and serving him wouldn't even be considered honourable.

If he turned away now, nobody would ever fault him. Yet his heart–his heart was unwilling. He was old and tired. Was everything he had done meaningless?

Even Jon Snow, Rhaegar's son, had looked at him with disappointment. Perhaps Barristan Selmy had never been the stellar knight he always aspired to be. Merely a man as flawed as the rest of them, an old fool easily deceived by honeyed words and false smiles. Perhaps it was time to make his own choices, vows and duties and norms be damned.

Ser Barristan's fingers clasped around Elegance's reassuring pommel. He tugged the dragonsteel sword free, took a deep breath, roared out, "AEGON!" and threw himself into the fray.